


On Remembrance

by Gotcocomilk



Category: God of War
Genre: Family Feels, Grief/Mourning, but like happy-ish ending, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gotcocomilk/pseuds/Gotcocomilk
Summary: A year to the day since the death of Faye, Kratos... remembers.





	On Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> A thanks for all the comments on my last GOW fic-- they were much appreciated. Take this sadness as tribute.

To give credit where credit was due, the idea was originally the head’s. Not that Kratos cared over-much— the deed was what mattered, not the laurels. The blood he spilt in Sparta spoke to the truth of that. Still, it _had_ been a particularly… poignant thought.

Since discovering his mother’s origins, Atreus had been insatiable in his quest for knowledge— hounding Mimir for tale after tale of the Frost Giants. He thirsted for information on the elusive culture, and constantly tried to convince his father to let him explore more of Jötunheim. In the face of his pleading eyes, even Kratos had a hard time saying no. He still did, of course— to give in to all the boy’s demands would breed naught but a spoiled child. But if, occasionally, he agreed; well, that was merely to hunt for precious resources in a long-forgotten realm.

On one such exploration the travelers stumbled across an old storehouse. The door was more ice than wood, sharp icicles pooling across the base. One firm punch had shattered the door, frozen shards of timber scattering into the warehouse behind. Inside, they found something they did not expect; the contents of the room were not weapons or ore, but the objects of life— small trinkets and lovers’ lockets. The shoes of a babe in arms; never worn.

The personal treasures of an entire race lay, in shambles, around them.

Kratos needed to open but one chest before he knew Atreus would not be pleased

“These are… clothes.” Atreus moved to a different crate. “And toys.” He was moving slower now, a fell expression casting shadows across normally-bright eyes. Reaching in, he pulled out a beaded doll. It was large— only to be expected from a race of giants— and ice had clumped together the faded strands of hair. Even from across the room, Kratos could see the boy’s shoulders slump.

Kratos suddenly felt every one of his blood-spattered years, deep in his bones.

Yet another people destroyed.

Throat tight and heart laden with old regrets, the Spartan turned back to the door. There would be no goods here to help with survival— and even if there were, he did not think the boy would willingly use them. Nor would he himself, for that matter. He’d give Faye’s kin that one respect, in death.

“We are leaving.”

For once, Atreus did not question, darting out of the storeroom with the speed of a frightened hare, his father’s slower strides chasing his shadow.

“Brother, wait!” Hand pressed against the icy door frame, Kratos paused, a foot across the threshold.

“What?”

“I have an idea— a little something for the lad.”

“He needs nothing.” Without his consent, a sliver of alarm touched the man. The idea the boy was lacking in some care was… displeasing. But unlikely— gods needed little, after all.

“Aye, aye, you provide for the lad alright. But what of his mother’s memory?”

Kratos stilled. It seemed so long ago that he had laid his palm over a handprint— bold and brilliant as Faye herself— marking the trees for a pyre. Her last act. Perhaps sensing the solemn moment, the head continued unbidden.

“It will be a year to the day since her death soon, brother. It is time for remembrance.”

“What.” Kratos’ words stalled. He tried again. “What would you have me do?”

“Look there, man— see the sky lanterns in the far corner? The frost giants used to send them aloft with prayers for the dead. I can think of no more fitting thing.”

No, Kratos could think of no better tribute. Not that he’d tell the head that, of course. In a few strides, he stood before a pile of torn paper and shredded prayers. Many of the lanterns were broken, but one was whole— he gripped the ancient paper gently, wide hands spread across the relic of a dead people. His love’s people.

“Father?” Kratos heard a note of concern in the boy’s voice, faint as it was through the door. He had dallied too long.

“Go, boy. To the gate— I will follow.” It was the work of a moment to fold the lantern, paper bending into familiar lines, and tuck it beside Mimir.

As he strode out, the head commented— “It is a little plain, ey brother? Maybe we can spice it up a little? Get some paint?” Kratos ignored his words. He already knew what should— no, _would_ — adorn the lantern.

* * *

  
Below the silver moon, a year to the day since the passing of the last giantess, a boat drifted across the mirror-smooth surface of a lake. All were silent.

Below the silver moon, a father gave his son a lantern. Across it’s canvas was a handprint, pressed into the paper with paint and grief.

Below the silver moon, a family— once broken, twice forged— mourned.

Below the silver moon, a lantern rose, bright as a new dawn.

And as day broke, the lament turned to remembrance.


End file.
